


Aconitum

by VivyPotter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auror Harry, Character Death, F/M, Florist Tom, He just wants to be happy, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Merope Gaunt Lives, Not Harry or Tom, Poor Harry, Separation/Divorce, Tomarry Big Bang 2017, Toxic Relationships, flowershop au, pretty angsty, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-26 14:53:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12061266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivyPotter/pseuds/VivyPotter
Summary: Merope Gaunt lived ten years longer, and everything changed.In which Harry Potter is a successful young Auror, trying to keep a crumbling relationship with his wife afloat. He and Ginny argue almost constantly, as they discover that their values do not entirely match up. Enter Tom Riddle: handsome owner of a flower shop on Knockturn Alley, who lends a willing ear to Harry’s woes.This is not as light and fluffy as it sounds.The Ministry is rife with corruption, the Muggleborn Registration is at peak popularity, and Lucius Malfoy is Minister for Magic. Harry is determined to get to the bottom of it- something has gone wrong here.Otherwise known as the flowershop AU that spiralled.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoo Tomarry Big Bang! Yay!  
> LOOK AT THIS BEAUTY! LOOK AT IT!  
> <http://blopoooo.tumblr.com/post/164535580534>  
> AND THIS!  
> <http://cannibalinc.tumblr.com/post/165245640656/for-the-2017-tomarrybigbang-this-piece-is>

Harry wasn’t sure how he had found himself in Knockturn Alley.

No, that was a lie: he knew precisely how he’d found himself in Knockturn Alley. He’d stumbled into the fireplace as Ginny screeched and chucked various pots and pans at him; grabbed a handful of floopowder, and then hoped for Diagon Alley.

He had not gotten Diagon Alley.

“Why does this always happen?” Harry complained, dusting off his robes and wiping away the soot from his glasses. He’d never been good with Floo powder.

In the corner of the shop, behind a dusty little counter, Mr Borgin muttered something about “using the fireplace without permission. Should bloody well charge him-“

“I wouldn’t try that,” Harry said loudly. “Unless you want to find out just how much of this junk is illegal.” He gestured to his surroundings; the pokey little shop, and all the secret nooks and crannies stuffed full of objects that Harry _knew_ the Department of Magical Artefacts would kill to confiscate.

Mr Borgin bristled, and rose to his full height (which wasn’t very tall). “Excuse me, _Mister_ Potter- first you take my Hand of Glory, and now you come into my shop and _threaten_ me. You Auror thugs are all the same.”

And then he spat, the spittle landing somewhere close to Harry’s shoe.

Harry frowned. He could vaguely remember being part of that raid on Borgin and Burkes now, and seizing a shrivelled hand. (What was he supposed to have done? It’d been a class eight dark object, for Merlin’s sake.)

Harry removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on, and this was _not_ where he’d wanted to end up. He sighed. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I’ll just… be going.”

He turned to leave and then paused, remembering Ginny’s screaming, snot-soaked face.

“Er actually,” he said sheepishly, “do you know if there are any flower shops nearby?”

* * *

He stepped out into Knockturn Alley, ducking his head and drawing up the collar of his coat. It wasn’t good to be seen coming out of place like that, especially not if you were steadily climbing up the Auror ranks. You never knew what would get back to Kingsley, and Harry didn’t fancy explaining how he’d accidentally fallen into Borgin and Burkes after Ginny threw a saucepan at his head.

He followed Mr Borgin’s instructions, taking a left down a back alley, sidling past a shadowy figure in a heavy cloak and politely waving away a little girl who tried to sell him a ‘magic turtle foot’.

“Aconitum, Aconitum,” he murmured, scanning the dusty shops. “Where are- oh, wow.”

It would have been difficult to miss the flower shop; it was so different from anything else on the street. It looked like a huge greenhouse, stretching and towering above the other shops in a huge edifice of glass. The frames were like burnished copper, twisting in ways that defied gravity. The plants beyond the shimmering glass pushed against the window panes, waving and pulsing in a way that just _told_ you the shop was magic.

“Overcompensating,” Harry muttered to himself, and snorted.

Harry frowned at the sign; the text so swirling and delicate that Harry could barely make out ‘Aconitum’, and ‘flower and herbology shop’ printed beneath.

“Definitely overcompensating.”

He managed to contain his snigger- he could just hear Hermione’s disapproving voice asking ‘are you 27 or 2? _Honestly_.’

However, the shop seemed lighter and more welcoming than the rest of the street, and Harry was fairly sure he was getting odd looks, so he quickly stepped inside.

The jingle that signalled the door opening reminded Harry a little of the Hogwarts’ bell, which meant that he was already smiling as he approached the desk. And it was a good thing too, because the man behind the counter froze the expression on his face.

He was attractive. Very attractive. The kind of attractive that you only saw in Witch Weekly under ‘latest catch’, all dark wavy hair and gleaming eyes. Harry immediately felt more self-conscious of his messy hair and smudged glasses, and tried to casually straighten his robes.

“Hello,” the man said, wearing a polite smile.

Harry meant to say “hello” or “good morning”, but instead an abrupt “is this your shop?” slipped out. In fairness, he was rather confused as to why a man who looked like _that_ was working in some random florists on Knockturn Alley.

“Yes, I own the establishment.” The man’s smile grew more subtly amused now, and he looked Harry up and down like he was noticing him fully for the first time. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, er- flowers!” Harry said quickly. “I need flowers.”

“Well, you’re certainly in the right place,” the man said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed with embarrassment. “I suppose I am.”

There was a long pause.

“So what do you need the flowers for?” the man asked pointedly, and Harry realised he was probably acting like an idiot.

 _You’re married_ , he told himself sternly. Still, he could _look_.

“Er, for my wife,” Harry explained.

“Did she give you that?”

The man nodded towards Harry’s chest, and he suddenly realised that he’d been playing with the locket again.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry glanced down, pinching the little silver lion between his fingers. “We both have one. Did that romantic thing, put a lock of hair in each- the whole shebang. It’s supposed to remind us that we love each other even when we fight.” Harry winced. “Which we do. A lot.”

The man clearly took note of his reaction. “Trouble in paradise?”

The man’s quietly entertained smirk was doing _things_ to Harry’s insides, and it was rather distracting.

“I forgot our anniversary,” Harry admitted. “Again. I don’t think I’ll be let back into the house without a peace offering.”

“Ah,” the man said, bending to fiddle with something beneath the counter. “’Again’? I sense a story there.”

“I’ve just been distracted by work,” Harry said, guilt growing heavy in the pit of his stomach. “It’s not an excuse, but…”

“I imagine being an Auror is quite time consuming.”

“Yeah, but it’s not just that- hang on, how did you know I was an Auror?” Harry asked suddenly, narrowing his eyes. The shop seemed smaller all of a sudden; more constricting and claustrophobic, and Harry became aware of exactly _where_ he was. Harry glanced back towards the door automatically, ready to run out into Knockturn Alley.

“Your picture was all over the Prophet,” the man said, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s panic. “The youngest Auror to ever reach your position. Your family must be proud.”

“Oh,” Harry said, relaxing. Why was he being so _paranoid_? “Yeah, they are. Mum nearly shattered my eardrums, and I think Dad cried.”

“It must be nice to have such a supportive family.”

“Yeah, it is. Might be nicer if Ginny didn’t want to curse me, though,” Harry winced.

“I suppose we should find you your flowers then,” the man laughed softly, and Harry swore that he’d never heard a more lovely sound. Merlin, was this man even _real?_

“I suppose we should.”

Upon Harry’s prompt, the man came out from the counter, coincidentally revealing the rest of his body. Harry’s heart sank.

 _Great_ , he thought. _He’s physically perfect._

The man crossed the shop to one of the far walls and drew a symbol in the air with his wand, muttering vaguely under his breath. He gestured and a large book flew through the air, settling into his hand. He flicked it open for reference and began casting again.

“You have a nice shop,” Harry said awkwardly, taking his chance to glance around now that he wasn’t being directly confronted by a distractingly beautiful face.

“Thank you. I built it myself.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm,” the man hummed. “I used to work in Borgin and Burkes-“

“That’s who recommended this shop to me!” Harry interrupted excitedly.

“Really? How strange.”

“Borgin hates me a little, so I thought he might have been directing me towards some sort of dark wizard headquarters, but apparently I was wrong.”

“Why did you come then, if you thought you were being led to your doom?”

“’Cause it’d be more dangerous to go home without an apology gift,” Harry said grimly. “Ginny threw kitchenware at me until I was able to escape. She’d probably brain me if I went home empty-handed.” 

The man laughed softly, turning a page. “Anyway, whilst working at Borgin and Burkes, I quickly discovered that antiques weren’t for me. And so I built this shop.”

“It’s very beautiful,” Harry said- and it was. It conjured memories of the Hogwarts greenhouses; tall ceilings and period elegance. Large leaves and greenery hung from every corner of the shop, but there was none of the humidity that you might have expected from the rainforest-like environment. Instead, it seemed warm and comforting, bright bursts of colours coming from unexpected blossoms scattered around the shop.

“Thank you.”

“A bit like the Hogwarts greenhouses, don’t you think?”

“That’s the inspiration. There’s nowhere quite like Hogwarts, after all,” the man said, with a wistful sigh that Harry could definitely empathise with.

“No, there’s nowhere quite like Hogwarts.”

Hogwarts had been a welcome escape for Harry during the years of his parents’ separation, becoming more of a home than Godric’s Hollow ever was. Even though his parents had eventually rebuilt their marriage, Hogwarts would always hold a special place in Harry’s heart.

“There!” the man said with satisfaction, and the wall spun to reveal a row of bouquets, all beautifully arranged.

Harry’s eyes widened, there were so many colours and shades- it was almost overwhelming. He was, however, immediately drawn to a single bouquet, coloured in tones of blues and purple. The faces on some of the flowers appeared to be alive, pouting and looking generally apologetic, which Harry thought Ginny would find suitably ridiculous. The rest of the bouquet was rather pretty, particularly the bell-like flowers in a light, baby blue.

“That one,” Harry said, and indicated his choice.

“Good choice,” the man complimented, and picked out the bouquet. “Very appropriate.”

“What were you doing with the wall and the book?” Harry asked curiously, as they headed back to the till.

“I don’t have the same limitations as a muggle florist. It means I can keep my produce in a temperature and humidity regulated area, separate from the shop. This,” he gestured to the greenery around them, “is mostly for show. I keep the interesting plants in a warehouse miles away- I even breed some new species. The book is my log. It’s quite comprehensive.”

“And the wall was you…”

“Yes, summoning the flowers. It’s a good system, and it expands the choices.” The man managed to make even a _shrug_ seem elegant.

“I love magic,” Harry sighed.

He paid quickly, and said reluctantly that he’d better get home quickly. It wouldn’t be a good idea to let Ginny stew- she might go to the Burrow and then he’d have two Weasley women furious at him.

“I was just thinking,” Harry said, pausing with the bouquet held tightly in his arms. “That you know my name and I don’t know yours.”

“Well, we can rectify that quickly enough,” the man said, tilting his head and smiling. “I’m Tom Riddle.”

“Harry Potter,” Harry said, offering his hand. “Though I suppose you knew that already.”

“Always nice to have a formal introduction,” Tom- _yes,_ Harry thought- _it suits him_ \- said smoothly, taking Harry’s hand and shaking it. “Can I take this as an indication that you’ll visit my little shop again?”

“Maybe,” Harry grinned. “If I survive.” He indicated slightly to the bouquet.

“I’m sure you will,” Tom said, and opened the door. “Your wife can’t be nearly as fearsome as you make her out to be.”

“You haven’t met her,” Harry grumbled, and shuffled through the doorway, taking care not to squish the blossoms on his way out.

Suddenly, his locket caught on a wall hook and was tugged from his neck, the chain snapping. Before Harry could awkwardly attempt to bend and pick it up, Tom crouched low and whispered a quiet spell, presenting the repaired locket to Harry with an exaggerated flourish.

“Thanks,” Harry said gratefully, slipping it back around his neck.

“I hope to see you again,” Tom said with a slight curl to his lips, indicating Harry’s way out. “And good luck.”

* * *

 

Harry opened the door to their apartment nervously, calling out Ginny’s name. “Er, Gin? Are you still here? Look, I’m sorry about yesterday. I brought flowers?”

Suddenly the bedroom door flew open and Ginny appeared, her eyes burning nearly as bright as her hair. “They’d be pretty damn spectacular-“

She froze, gazing with wide-eyes at the bouquet in Harry’s arms. Her face went curiously blank for a minute.

“Are they alright?” Harry asked tentatively.

“Oh Harry, they’re _beautiful_ ,” she gushed, rushing forwards and gathering the flowers into her arms. “I have to find a vase.”

Harry blinked. Usually when they had an argument, Ginny would let Harry suffer for a few days, uncertain of whether she had actually forgiven him. This seemed very out of character.

“I really am sorry,” Harry promised, following her to the kitchen.

“It’s fine. I didn’t actually expect you to remember, and I know you’re busy with work at the moment.”

“Yeah, but so are you. It’s not an excuse,” Harry said, a little unnerved with how calm she was. “I don’t think we should just ignore that this happened… I think we should talk. And really, there are a few things I need to explain.”

Ginny turned to him with an indulgent expression. “Let’s talk then.”

“Oh. Okay then.” Harry frowned, and shuffled awkwardly. Ginny was never this… passive. “I know I’ve been a bit secretive for the past few months, but it’s not just Auror stuff I’ve been doing. I have this project I’m working on- and it could blow the whole Ministry open. I’m so _close_.”

Ginny opened a cupboard and lifted down a vase, barely glancing at him. “What’s your project on?”

“The Minister- Minister Malfoy- I found something out about him.” Harry’s voice grew faster, and slightly obsessive. He leaned in excitedly. “Three months ago, one of his owls came to me- by accident, I think; they had some sort of virus that week- and it had _instructions_ in it, Gin. Predictions. Every law being proposed in the Wizengamot, then whether it would be passed or blocked… and then, somehow, the next day, it all came true. Malfoy’s _dirty,_ someone’s pulling the strings, and I’m going to prove it.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I’ve got someone in his department, they’ve got to find something soon. I’ve been looking through possible bribe donations to the Ministry, but the incoming funds seem pretty legit. I thought that- Ginny, what are you doing? I thought you’d be more, I dunno, _interested_ in this.”

Ginny made a vague sound of interest, busily arranging the flowers and sprucing up the leaves with a quick charm. “I am. I just don’t see how it affects me.”

“Ginny, someone’s controlling the Minister! And worse of all, it’s _Malfoy_.”

“Politics are always going to be dirty, Harry. It’s not like he’s doing any bad, is it? The Muggleborn Registration’s the only major thing that Malfoy’s implemented, and that’s done a world of good.”

Harry scowled. “What are you talking about? You’ve _seen_ some of the kids that come out of that program. They were better off staying where they were.”

“With the _muggles_?” Ginny laughed. “And what are the muggles supposed to do when their children start levitating tables and apparating onto roofs? Magical children aren’t safe with the muggles, Harry, everyone knows that. Even _Malfoy_.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Harry said, shaking his head in confusion. “You hate the Muggleborn Registration, you told me-“

“No, Harry, _you_ hate the Muggleborn Registration, and so I said that I do too, because I love you. Look, I know you have issues with children feeling abandoned after your parents’ split-“

“-That has nothing to do with it-“

“-But your parents are happy now, aren’t they? And so are the children from the Registration. Hermione’s fine, isn’t she?”

“Hermione got lucky,” Harry grumbled.

“And so did thousands of other children. You’re looking for fault with Malfoy, but you shouldn’t. Focus on _us_. Maybe then you won’t miss our anniversary, and I won’t be left sobbing my eyes out until 2 in the morning with a chicken going cold in the oven.” Ginny said this all very cheerfully, cooing and waving at one of the pouting flower faces.

Harry bit his lip, feeling rather disheartened. “Are you _sure_ you’re okay, Gin? You’re acting… very happy, about all this.”

Ginny stopped _humming_ and raised an eyebrow, suddenly going very still. “And is that a _problem_?”

“Nope,” Harry squeaked. “Definitely not.”

“Good,” Ginny said contently, and turned her attention back to the bouquet.

“You know how I mentioned visiting my parents?” Harry said uncomfortably, glancing towards the fireplace. “I’m going to do that. Right now.”

“Have fun, dear.”

And Harry fled into green flames for the second time in 24 hours. This was turning into rather an odd day.

* * *

 

“…And then she just said ‘have fun, dear’, as if she hadn’t shattered my whole world,” Harry announced, letting his head drop onto the table.

“I think you’re being a bit dramatic,” his mother said, sharing an amused look with his father. “It’s sounds like she was just being honest.”

“She told me she _approves_ of the Muggleborn Registration. A shared hatred of Malfoy’s policies is literally what brought us together!”

“Well, I hope it isn’t the _only_ thing that you like about her,” Lily said with a snort. “People change, Harry. And whilst you know that you’d never catch me promoting Lucius Malfoy, he isn’t exactly Mordred incarnate. It’s not a crime to support him.”

“But she hasn’t _seen_ some of the kids that come out of that program. I _know_ that Colin Creevey never recovered. He killed himself last year, and the Averys didn’t even come to his funeral.”

“And I’m not saying that it’s flawless, but it has done _some_ good. Hermione did well, didn’t she?”

“Hermione’s a genius,” Harry dismissed. “She’d ‘do well’ raised in a cave. And Malfoy’s done other stuff too. He hates the Weasleys- Ron had real trouble finding a job in the Ministry after Hogwarts.”

“That’s because he failed his OWLs, dear,” Lily reminded him.

“But he really pulled it together for NEWTs!”

“Look, son,” James said soothingly, “neither I nor your mother are defending Lucius Malfoy. He’s why I left the Auror department, after all- so I wouldn’t be tempted to punch him in the face. And that’s turned out alright, hasn’t it? I got out, and got myself a serious job.”

Lily snorted. “You run a joke shop with your best friends.”

“We pay taxes!” James said defensively.

“I just can’t believe it was all a lie,” Harry grumbled, taking a gloomy sip of tea.

Lily sighed. “Sweetie, I’m sure it wasn’t. I know you have… issues with Malfoy, not least because of mine and your father’s brief separation-“

“It was _nine years_. And why does everyone think I’m traumatised?!”

“-But don’t let it ruin you and Ginny, yeah?” James finished. “You have a good thing going.” He grinned and wound an arm around Lily. “Just like a Potter to snatch himself a hot redhead.”

Lily shot her husband a glare. “I wasn’t _snatched_ from anyone, James Potter, you _begged_ me to have you. Twice.”

“It’s true,” James shrugged.

“She was acting so _happy_ ,” Harry said glumly. “All calm and content. She’s never like that. She was like a whole other person.”

His parents exchanged a Look, and Harry felt a shiver go down his spine.

“Well, Harry,” Lily started cautiously. “Have you considered that she might be- well, I’m not sure it’s my place- but that she might be…”

“That she might be _what_?”

“….Pregnant?”

Harry blinked. “Huh?”

“Preggers,” James said helpfully. “Bun in the oven. Eating for two. In the family way-“

“Yes, _thank you_ , James,” Lily said sharply. She softened her voice as she took Harry’s hand. “All I’m saying, dear, is that I remember acting very oddly when I was pregnant-“

“Total monster,” James said confidingly, ducking the fork that Lily threw at him.

“-And Ginny might be experiencing the same thing.”

“But- but we used contraceptive charms,” Harry said slowly. “And we were careful-“

“Things happen,” James shrugged. “Mistakes get made. Eggs get fertilised. Wives get knocked up-”

“ _Thank you_ , James! The important thing, Harry sweetheart, is that Ginny is probably going through ten times more than you are. And, as the father, it’s your job to support her. Unless you both decide to terminate the pregnancy, of course,” Lily added.

“Just talk to each other,” James suggested.

“I don’t know if I want to do any more ‘talking’. It just seems to make everything worse,” Harry mumbled, but nodded obediently. If Ginny was pregnant, he was going to be the best damn father to ever exist.

* * *

 

Ginny, as it turned out, was _not_ pregnant.

“I can’t believe you’d think that!” she complained, pressing a hand to her stomach and staring intently at the mirror. “Am I looking fat?”

“No,” Harry rushed off of the bed to console her. “You were just acting weirdly yesterday-“

“I was on my period,” she growled. “ _Because I’m not pregnant_.”

“Okay!” Harry said loudly. “So you’re not pregnant. Great. Glad we sorted that out.”

It still didn’t answer the question of why she’d been acting so oddly yesterday, because Harry had yet to see a period that made Ginny _happier_.

He continued on. “But about the other day, when you said you were supportive of the Registration-”

“That’s how I feel,” Ginny said very sharply. “I’m not taking it back. _And_ I think Dumbledore was a naïve attention-seeker with no realistic goals. But of course, maybe I’m just _pregnant_.”

She marched out of the bedroom, shooting Harry a triumphant, dangerous glare.

Harry almost wished he hadn’t spoken.

* * *

 

The next few weeks were fraught. The reveal of Ginny’s feelings about the Muggleborn Registration had pushed their already unsteady relationship to the brink. The momentary calm that Ginny had appeared to experience that day was gone, and now she was brutal, revealing lie after lie as a kind of trump card. Harry wasn’t entirely innocent either, and they got into hideous arguments, screaming abuse.

Their poor neighbours must have been terrified.

It was like that one evening had ripped away their safety net; where before, after arguments, they had retreated to their safe bubble of ‘it’s fine, he/she loves me’; now there was just an inherent sense of betrayal and long silences.

Harry had to know why.

Perhaps, Harry thought, he should return to Aconitum. This had all started when Harry got the flowers, after all. Maybe Tom had some answers.

* * *

 

“Hello?” Harry called out, pushing open the door to the flower shop. He peered around the interior and was once again amazed- he wondered how long it long it took Tom to build it. It was almost exactly like being back at Hogwarts. He took an uncertain step into the shop, unsure if he was allowed to. For a moment, he couldn’t remember if you were allowed into shops with no one behind the counter. For Merlin’s sake, why he was he nervous-

“Hello, Harry.”

“ _Merlin!”_ Harry gasped, spinning around pressing a hand to his hammering heart. “Bloody hell, Tom! You don’t half like making an entrance.”

Tom smiled wryly, closing the door. “I’ve been told I have a dramatic flair.”

Harry could imagine that. Tom was the only florist Harry had ever seen in well-cut, carefully pressed robes- he looked more like a politician than a flower-seller. Tom’s robes wouldn’t be out of place on Lucius Malfoy.

“So what brings you back to my humble store? Did your wife enjoy the flowers?”

“Er, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Harry said uncomfortably, running a harried hand through his hair. “That day, when I went home, Ginny was… really _calm_.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “And that’s bad because…”

“Unnaturally calm. And then she said some stuff that she definitely wouldn’t normally say which was a bit shocking- but, anyway, that’s not the point.” Harry took a deep breath. “The point is: was there something up with the flowers? Did you _do_ something to them? Is that why? She’s never reacted like that before.”

Harry thought the fact that Tom didn’t immediately curse him was a good sign, instead clasping his hands in front of him, considering Harry’s question.

“Yes,” Tom said finally, “and no.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “That’s not vague at all.”

“The bouquet is in the apologies range. The flowers have charms and associations that encourage a calm mentality and honesty between a couple, but they in no way create emotions or responses that aren’t there. It just leads to transparency.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me this before I bought it?”

Tom shrugged. “The charms are weak. They last barely a few hours, and they don’t usually have a noticeable effect unless the couple already have serious communication issues.” He paused, and offered a faint smile. “No offence.”

Harry tried for half-hearted disapproval and the patented ‘Auror scowl’. “Selling someone an item without informing them of any emotion-effecting charms is illegal. I could arrest you.”

At least now he knew why Tom’s shop was on Knockturn Alley.

Tom looked at him closely, tilting his head to one side. Harry wondered when Dumbledore found the time to pass on his ‘x-ray look’ before he died.

“You won’t,” Tom said with certainty. “You’re just struggling to process everything you’ve learnt.”

There was a moment of tension, where they were both aware of the very different directions that this conversation could take.

Suddenly, Harry sighed and collapsed into a convenient chair. “I knew we had issues, but I didn’t know they were that _drastic_.”

“I’m sure-“

“I just can’t believe she _agrees_ with him!” Harry cried out. “And worse of all, she _lied_ about it. I hate being lied to,” he muttered angrily, glaring down at his hands.

“Whom does she agree with?” Tom asked curiously, leaning against the counter and looking effortlessly casual.

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Harry said disgustedly. “ _I_ think he’s an arse.”

Harry had never been shy about his political beliefs, and didn’t honestly care if Tom disagreed with him. Besides, there was no _way_ that Harry didn’t currently have the moral high ground.

Tom, however, defied expectation and merely said: “That’s an interesting opinion to have on our Minister,” in a mild voice.

“ _I_ didn’t vote for him,” Harry muttered mutinously. “I disagree with everything he stands for.”

“I thought the Muggleborn Registration was a resounding success.”

Harry glowered. “ _Some_ of it is- it’s alright for the muggleborns who get placed with decent purebloods, like my friend, Hermione- she got the Longbottoms. But some of the others-“ Harry shuddered. “The Daily Prophet doesn’t like to advertise it, seeing as we’re living in a ‘new age of magical co-operation and equality’, but most traditionalists still hate muggleborns. It doesn’t matter if they’re raised by the Muggle Queen of England or Godric Gryffindor himself- they’re still ‘dirty’. They’re still _lesser_. Putting a muggleborn with a family like the Averys- it’s like throwing a lamb to the lions.”

“But the muggles aren’t always the safer option, either,” Tom said, his face neutral. “I lived in the wizarding world with my mother until she died, and then I was sent to a muggle orphanage. I would have done anything to stay with a magical family.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said hesitantly, unsure if he should pat Tom’s arm or something.

“It’s quite alright- I’ve moved on. I can’t help thinking, however, that the Muggleborn Registration could have saved me as a child.”

Harry glanced up at Tom, expecting to see disgust or anger, but Tom merely watched him curiously, as if he’d only said that to observe Harry’s reaction.

“Well, why didn’t it?”

Tom looked taken aback. “What?”

“Well, Lucius Malfoy and his idiots have been in office for nearly 18 years, and the Muggleborn Registration act was introduced less than a year into his term. I was 9, and-” Harry judged roughly, “you can’t be _that_ much older than me. You should have been one of the first to be ‘rehoused’.”

“It missed me.” Tom said slowly, seeming to look at Harry with more interest than ever.

Harry did the maths quickly, and his eyes widened in shock. “You’re _35_? Bloody hell, you look like you just got out of Hogwarts!”

“I age well.”

“You age like a vampire.” Harry snorted, and then narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “You’re _not_ a vampire, are you?”

“I vant to drink your blood,” Tom intoned in a low Transylvanian accent, and the following chuckle sent a warm shiver down the back of Harry’s spine.

“Alright, so you’re not,” Harry rolled his eyes, his cheeks glowing red. “I just…” He sighed. “Sometimes I realise that if my parents had been non-magical, I wouldn’t have gotten the chance to know them. Not properly. I’d have been torn away from them and placed with some random stranger. No one should go through that.”

“If your parents had been non-magical,” Tom pointed out, “they might not have _wanted_ to get to know you.”

“No,” Harry denied. “My parents wouldn’t be different people if they didn’t have magic. And that’s just the point! All this Muggleborn Registration bullshit just means that we get more and more isolated from the muggles, and we forget that they’re not _monsters_ \- they’re people, like us. They don’t deserve to have their families torn apart.”

“That’s a dangerous opinion to have.”

“Exactly. So-called ’New age of equality’ my arse,” Harry snorted.

“You’re very passionate about this,” Tom observed, the look in his eye indecipherable.

“My mum’s a muggleborn, and my grandparents are muggles. Fighting against Malfoy values was my whole Hogwarts career,” Harry snorted. “We had a club and everything- Dumbledore’s Army, fighting for muggle and muggleborn rights ‘til the end. We read his speech transcripts almost religiously.” Harry shrugged. “But then Dumbledore died, and we got smaller and smaller- you know how it goes. Rebellion’s only exciting for most people whilst they have time and teenage angst to spend. Eventually they have to grow up.”

“But not you.”

“Not me,” Harry said resolutely. “Never.”

“I take it your wife doesn’t share the same views?”

Harry stood suddenly as a wave of anxious energy hit him, and he ran a hand through his hair. “I thought she did. She was one of the first members of the DA, even. But I guess not.”

“Lucius Malfoy has a high approval rating,” Tom suggested. “At one point, it’s easier to go with the flow. Sometimes people drift in different directions. And, if you don’t mind my saying so, it doesn’t sound like you and your wife are very good at talking to one another.”

“I thought we were,” Harry said helplessly, and then slumped. “No, that’s a lie. To be honest, I love her, but she intimidates me sometimes. And I guess I intimidate her too,” He gave a wry and slightly bitter smile. “I would never want her to _pretend_ to believe in a cause-“ a broken breath- “I just can’t believe she _lied_. If it hadn’t been for your truth flower things… I’d never have _known_ her.”

“It’s strange how little we often know those we love,” Tom agreed.

Harry grinned. “Are you sure you don’t have any of those truth flower things hidden around here? This is some pretty heavy stuff for relative strangers to talk about.”

 “I’ve been told I have an approachable face.” Tom smiled. “And nothing lets a person’s guard down like floristry.”

Harry chuckled. “Sounds almost devious.”

“All part of my master plan to take over the wizarding world,” Tom said very seriously, and Harry let out a delighted laugh.

“Ruling the wizarding world from a little flower shop on Knockturn Alley.”

Tom smiled. “Quite.”

“Well, I’d better go,” Harry said, checking his watch. “I wanted to head into work and get some paperwork done- and then make sure those flowers are gone, no offence. Ginny acting calm is creepier than Kreacher. He’s the Black family house elf,” Harry explained, seeing Tom’s confusion. “He used to bring me a rat whenever I visited as a child.”

“That’s quite sweet.”

“It would have been sweeter if we could find the other half of it.”

“Probably,” Tom agreed. He began to wander around the counter, crouching down behind it. “Before you go, would you be interested in a new bouquet to replace the last one? Free of charge- and no ‘truth flowers’ this time, I promise.”

Harry paused, eyeing Tom with slight suspicion. Tom probably wouldn’t try the same thing twice. “Sure.”

Tom rose, holding a bouquet made of a vibrant mix of reds and oranges; its very presence seemed to light up the room. One of the flowers looked the exact colour of Ginny’s hair.

“Be careful with that one.” Tom indicated to the same flower that Harry had noticed, whilst handing the arrangement over. “The pollen gets everywhere.”

“Thanks,” Harry nodded, shrinking the bouquet so he could slip it into his bag. “And thanks for the impromptu therapy session.”

“I was partially the trigger after all, the least I could do was listen to the aftermath,” Tom admitted. “Although I’m glad you found some comfort in it.”

“Yeah. Well, I’d better get going now,” Harry said, inching towards the door, but strangely reluctant to leave. “The Ministry waits for no wizard, and all that.”

Tom nodded and held out his hand. “Will you be coming back? I’ve rather enjoyed our chat. I feel like this could be the start of a wonderful friendship.”

Harry considered the hand and took it, shaking firmly. “Yeah. Me too.”

And then Harry took the opportunity to hurry out of the door, forcing himself not to look back as he walked away, down the street. Why was he so easily _distracted_? He had a beautiful wife waiting for him at home. Of course, Harry would never _do_ anything… but the stone of guilt weighted heavily in his stomach. And he and Ginny should probably talk tonight too… urgh, he wasn’t looking forwards to that.

As soon as Harry’s head felt a little clearer, he gripped his wand tightly, turned on his heel, and disapparated.

* * *

 

Harry was making his way to his desk when he caught Zacharias Smith’s eye. Smith was a lower-level Auror, brilliant at herbology but with an attitude that meant he’d have been fired if he wasn’t very good at what he did. He and Harry tended to get along reasonably well.

Harry made a decision.

“Hey Smith,” Harry said, approaching the Auror’s desk.

“Potter,” Zacharias nodded cordially, his usual sneer in place.

“I was wondering if you could check something out for me.” Harry dug into his bag and pulled out the bouquet, unshrinking it. “Could you see if this has any charms on it? Or anything, y’know, odd? Just quickly, yeah?”

Zacharias rolled his eyes, but took the bouquet nonetheless, and muttered for Harry to wait a minute. And then he went through a door, yelling out that he needed one of the potions in the storeroom.

Harry waited obligingly, nodding to Gregory Goyle as he walked past.

Finally, Zacharias emerged, looked as disinterested as usual although- Harry thought- perhaps a little pale.

“They’re fine,” Zacharias drawled. “Nothing odd about them. These for Ginny?”

“That’s the plan,” Harry said, taking the bouquet back gratefully. There was a burst of warmth within him, as he realised that Tom hadn’t lied. It was just a normal, beautiful bouquet.

“You know, I heard your wife interviewing for the Quidditch World Cup on the radio yesterday,” Zacharias mentioned, oddly chatty.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed with a proud smile. “She’s been trying to get that job for ages.”

“She seemed awfully friendly with Viktor Krum in her last interview. One could even… _suspect_ something.”

Harry laughed, though he didn’t feel as certain as he would have a month ago. “Ginny wouldn’t do that.”

Zacharias raised an eyebrow smugly. “Oh yeah?” He waved his wand at a nearby radio, and Ginny’s crackling voice emerged.

_“So here I am with Quidditch World Champion, Viktor Krum, who’s been having an almost unbelievable run this season. How are you feeling, Viktor?”_

_“I, er, am feeling good. It will be hard, but we believe we will defeat the Portuguese team.”_

_“I’m sure you will- those shoulders can’t all be for show.”_ Followed by a girlish giggle the likes of which Harry didn’t even know Ginny could _make_. _“But tell us a little about your workout routine.”_

_“Well, for being the seeker it is important that I do not keep much weight, so I do not much, er- how you say?- hard training, but much running instead.”_

_“I’ve always thought runners have amazing legs- wouldn’t you agree, Viktor?”_

_“I am not sure I can be commenting, Mrs Potter, but my legs do the work that they are supposed to do.”_

_“Please, call me Ginny- I’m sure Harry wouldn’t mind.”_

As the sentence hovered in the air (everyone in the office looked distinctly uncomfortable), Harry was already grabbing his bag and marching out the door. Ginny had some explaining to do.

* * *

 

Harry shut the front door behind him, bouquet clutched tightly in his hand. He saw Ginny leaning against the kitchen counter, reading a newspaper with a slight frown on her face. A sudden pain had him wince and glance down. A prick of blood. The thorn had pierced his skin.

“Hey Gin,” Harry said, faux-casually. He had to try and keep calm, otherwise this conversation would go _nowhere_.

“You’re home early. What’s this about?” Ginny asked icily, turning the page of a Daily Prophet.

“Whilst I was in the office, I, er, caught your latest sports broadcast.”

“Mm. That’s a good one.”

Harry gritted his teeth. “…You were pretty friendly with Viktor Krum.”

“Yes, I wondered if you’d pick up on that,” Ginny said, keeping her eyes fixed on the newspaper.

“What do you mean ‘if I’d ‘pick up on it’?” Harry exploded, striding towards her. He’d never been very good at 'calm'. “It wasn’t exactly subtle!”

“You never listen to my broadcast-“

“You _know_ I’m busy. But that doesn’t give you the right to throw yourself at Viktor bloody Krum!”

Ginny rolled her eyes, finally turning to face him. Harry noticed her cheeks were very red. “I wasn’t ‘throwing myself’ at anyone. Viktor knew perfectly well what was going on.”

“And what _was_ going on, then?”

“Journalism.”

Harry snorted.

“No, you _listen_ ,” Ginny said fiercely. “Lockhart called me into his office the other week, told me that they only hired a woman for sexual chemistry. Apparently I wasn’t ‘bringing enough heat’. They’d have _fired_ me if I didn’t turn it up a notch, Harry- and don’t worry, I told Viktor _exactly_ why I was suddenly complimenting his ‘magnificently broad shoulders’- he looks like a bowtruckle, for Morgana’s sake.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mind the compliments,” Harry said acidly.

“No he didn’t, but _you_ don’t mind it when I tell you that your hair looks ‘windswept’-“

“We’re married, Gin! There’s a fucking difference!” he bellowed, fingernails digging into the wound on his palm. “And why didn’t you tell me about this? It’s not right- you _know_ that. You shouldn’t have to flirt with anyone anyway, you’re a professional, for Merlin’s sake-“

“You think I don’t know that?!” Ginny screamed, finally losing control. “You think it’s not bloody _humiliating_ to be told that my voice isn’t ‘lusty’ enough? But everyone does it, Harry! Hermione put on lipstick to get her internship, Luna’s always at some godforsaken premiere answering question after question on ‘who are you wearing’, and I had to pretend I was attracted to Viktor Krum’s abnormally large nose. It’s called ‘earning a living’.”

“The old Ginny wouldn’t have said this,” Harry said firmly. “She’d have never given in like that. She’d have told them to ‘fuck off-”

“The ‘old Ginny’ didn’t have to think about how she could raise children on a Ministry wage,” Ginny gestured furiously. “I know you don’t like to admit it, Harry, but you earn _sickles_. That’s if you ever decide to bother with kids _or_ me.” Ginny turned away from Harry and started pacing furiously. “And so perhaps I liked the flirting. Perhaps I liked feeling _wanted_ for once. We haven’t had sex in months, Harry! Months!”

“I tried to start something last week!” Harry protested.

“As an apology! I don’t want apology sex! I want you to _want_ me. _Do_ you want me?” Ginny had her hands tangled in her hair, she looked at him almost desperately.

There was a long pause between them, and for some reason, Tom’s face flashed through Harry’s mind. But that was _different_ , Harry hadn’t actually _done_ anything. He hadn’t even flirted.

Tom was just a florist.

“I just want you to _care_ ,” Ginny said very quietly.

“Of course I care,” Harry insisted. “If you’d just told me about this before, if you’d said what they were asking you to do, I could’ve-“

“ _What_?” Ginny threw her hands in the air. “You could’ve done what, exactly? Stormed in and lost me my job? I didn’t want you going all ‘full might of the Ministry’ on them, Harry, and that’s precisely what you would’ve done. Besides,” she shifted uncomfortably, “he told me not to tell anyone.”

“And if Lucius Malfoy told you to jump off a cliff, you’d do it, would you?”

“Oh, for Morgana’s sake,” Ginny hissed, growling in frustration. “Why does it always come back to Lucius Malfoy-“

“Because he’s evil. And you always agreed with me, I still don’t understand why you’ve suddenly-”

 “Well, there’s no point keeping the charade up now, is there?” Ginny said grimly. “The cat’s out of the cauldron.”

“I just wanted some honesty.”

“You want honesty?” Ginny hissed. “Fine. Here’s what I think about Lucius Malfoy. _He’s just a politician_ , Harry! He’s not good, he’s not bad, and he’s certainly not evil. Sometimes, I swear to Merlin, I could just strangle you-” And she clenched her hands, and if she were just picturing wrapping them around Harry’s neck.

“At least then I wouldn’t have to live with a _liar_ -“

“You’re so paranoid!” she snarled. “You’re crazy and paranoid, and I _hate_ you! Why do you care so much about Lucius Malfoy? You’re fighting a war that doesn’t exist. _No one_ is fighting back!”

“His campaign slogan was ‘keeping magic pure’,” Harry spat. “I can’t condone that.”

“He said what we wanted to hear to get elected, and now he’s in power, he’ll do what needs to be done. And _I_ don’t have a problem with that. We’ve seen a reduction in muggle hate crimes-“

“No,” Harry said stonily. “I think you’ll find, Gin, that we’ve seen a reduction in muggle hate crime _investigations_. It’s still happening; no one’s safer; the world hasn’t gotten _better_ \- it’s just that no one _cares_ anymore.”

“I care,” Ginny said, very small.

Harry couldn’t stop a sneer from spreading over his features. “Not enough.”

There was a moment of silence that stretched between them, and Harry and Ginny stared at one another, separated by a doorway that seemed like billions of years. The truth was out, and it _hurt_.

“We got married too young,” Ginny said finally, shakily. “We should’ve seen what it did to your parents.” She reached up to her neck and pulled off her locket, letting the chain trail loosely from her clenched fist.

“Leave my parents out of this,” Harry said, but his voice sounded weak. “You lied to me for 11 years. You pretended to be a different person for 11 years. You trapped me in a relationship with someone who isn’t even _real_.”

“I’m real, Harry,” Ginny said stubbornly, and she let the locket fall to the floor. “I’m just not who you thought I was. It’s not my fault if you’re so bloody passionate that I can’t _talk_ to you-“

“You never tried.” Then Harry lifted the bouquet, placed it on the counter, said coldly, “I brought you these,” and left.

He sat on the doorstep, raised his face to the heavens, and _wept_.

* * *

 “Ginny moved back in with her parents. She even took the bloody flowers- said they made Molly smile,” Harry told Tom, sat in what had become ‘his chair’.

After Ginny and he broke up, Harry had needed someone to spend his time with and, somehow, he found himself returning to Aconitum. And so he visited the shop nearly every day, sat with Tom, and just _talked_. It was an odd place- Tom never seemed to have any customers, but Harry was grateful for the friendship anyway.

Tom was very easy to talk to: he didn’t fly off the broomstick like Ginny did when she heard something she didn’t like. Tom was calculating, strategic, measured- Harry found it overwhelmingly comforting. He needed to talk to someone who wasn’t a mutual friend; someone who didn’t offer Ginny’s side of the argument, or look away guiltily when Harry said something uncomplimentary of her; someone who knew Harry as his own person, and not HarryandGinny. He needed someone to be completely, solely, unabashedly _his_.

“Are you keeping the apartment, then?” Tom asked, glancing up at Harry as he polished the counter. Tom preferred doing chores the muggle way, and Harry wondered if it was a result of his muggle upbringing.

“Yeah. Ginny said she’d find a new place. She earns more than me anyway. That was just one of… one of the reasons for the break up.” Harry gazed down at his hands, a sick feeling of anger rising within him.

Tom frowned, pausing in his cleaning. “What’s the matter?”

“She said I don’t want children,” Harry burst out. The accusation had stuck with him, burrowed deep into his heart. “I do want children, I _do_. I just… have other things to focus on. Work things.” Harry leaned back abruptly, tensing his jaw. “She _knows_ that I want kids, we talked about that. I _said_ that I want to be a… a…”

“A better father,” Tom finished quietly.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, my dad is great and I love him, but… _I_ want to always be there for my kids- they’re gonna be able to talk to me about _everything_. I was always closer with my mum.”

“My father abandoned my mother when he found out she was pregnant,” Tom said, quite calmly. “I’ve never met him.”

“Oh Merlin, Tom, I’m sorry,” Harry realised, wincing sympathetically. “I always forget about, y’know, your past. You just seem so well adjusted-“

“It’s fine,” Tom replied nonchalantly. “My mother told me about him whilst I was still young. From what she said of him, it’s no great loss. I don’t entirely blame him for leaving, anyway. My mother’s actions were quite unforgiveable.”

“They were?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“She used a love potion.”

“ _Oh_.”

Love potions were heavily policed in wizarding society, and had, in fact, been the first magical items to be illegalised by Minister Malfoy. It was also one of the only Malfoy policies Harry agreed with. Harry knew that opinion on love potions used to be different: they were a joke product, sold openly in shops and treated like a bit of a laugh on Valentine’s Day. But Lucius Malfoy had changed that: the first to compare them to the Imperius curse.

Now, things were very different. It was almost a symbol of the ‘old generation’ to treat love potions in a more blasé manner. Harry had once spent an uncomfortable afternoon with Mrs Weasley, listening as she discussed dosing one of her classmates in her youth. No one at the table quite had the heart to remind her how illegal they were.

“That’s awful,” Harry breathed.

“Yes. She was quite hopeless and relentlessly abused, but it doesn’t really excuse her actions,” Tom said flatly. “She told me that every day, right up until the day she died. She was quite repentant.” His lip twisted.

“How, er, _did_ your mum pass, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Pneumonia,” Tom said, returning to polishing. “It was quite awful.”

“Oh,” Harry blinked, shrinking back slightly. “Right.”

“I nursed her until she died, and then the Ministry came, took our house, and left me at a muggle orphanage. It was Professor Dumbledore who left me there, actually.” Tom smiled coldly. “When he came a year later with my Hogwarts letter, he was the first wizard I’d seen since she passed.”

“I remember the day that Dumbledore died,” Harry mused. The newspapers had run the story for weeks: outspoken politician found mysteriously murdered in his bed, frozen like he’d been chiselled out of marble. And one of the only leading political figures opposing Lucius Malfoy and his separationist campaign, too. The DA had been inconsolable.  “It was so sad. He should have been around for at least another twenty years.”

“Yes,” Tom agreed. “Tragic.”

Harry watched as Tom’s face twisted oddly, and remembered how he had mentioned knowing Dumbledore personally. Perhaps Tom had gone to the funeral.

“Molly thinks Ginny and I should try marriage counselling,” Harry mentioned, trying to alleviate the silence. “She thinks we’ve just gotten a bit distant. Apparently she and Arthur went through exactly the same thing.”

“I imagine Arthur and Molly never lied to each other about their political beliefs throughout the entirety of their relationship,” Tom remarked. “But I wouldn’t know- I’ve never met them.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “I imagine they didn’t. Molly and Arthur are both staunchly anti-Malfoy, which is why I don’t understand…” he trailed off, grumbling bad-temperedly under his breath.

“Children don’t always share the same political views as their parents.”

“Yeah, but usually they go _more_ liberal, not less.”

“Malfoy’s not entirely without his liberalisms,” Tom pointed out. “He was all for the marriage equality act.”

“But that’s because he’s gay,” Harry snorted.

Tom raised his eyebrows.

“Oh sorry,” Harry corrected sarcastically, sneering slightly. “I completely forgot that he’s happily married with a kid. Doesn’t stop him from hitting on me whenever he’s in the office,” he mumbled bitterly.

“He flirts with you?” Tom looked surprised, which meant ‘utterly shocked’ in Tom-expressions. “But that’s completely unprofessional. And inappropriate.”

Harry chuckled grimly. “Lucius Malfoy doesn’t care about appropriateness.”

“Well, he should,” Tom hissed, looking almost- dare Harry say it?- _murderous_.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry shrugged. “I’ve gotten pretty good with my stinging hexes. Anyway, Ginny doesn’t want marriage counselling either- at least we agree on one thing. I think she’s pushing for a divorce- Molly’s horrified.”

“And what do you want?”

“I dunno,” Harry said morosely. “I don’t want to stay together- but I never imagined I’d be getting a divorce at 27, y’know? We were supposed to be endgame. It just feels a bit like giving up.”

“And _you’ve_ never given up at anything before, have you?” Tom mused with a wry smile.

“No. And I’m quite proud of that. Gryffindor stubbornness always pulls through in the end.”

“Perhaps you should think of it more like completing a chapter of your life,” Tom suggested. “Finishing something you started, and moving on.”

“That’s a good way of looking at it,” Harry admitted, and rolled his eyes. “We’ve agreed to a few counselling sessions, just for Molly’s sake but-“ Harry shrugged helplessly “-I don’t think it’s going to change anything.”

“If the relationship is the issue, no amount of counselling will fix it.”

“I haven’t said it to Molly,” Harry said quietly, guiltily, barely above a whisper. “But I don’t think I _want_ the relationship fixed. I don’t think I can live with Ginny anymore.”

“So don’t.”

It wasn’t as simple as that. Ginny had been a part of his life for almost _11 years_ \- they’d been dating since Hogwarts. Harry didn’t know how to function without her. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, or say, or feel. He kept making two slices of toast in the morning, leaving a space beside his shoes- he went to kiss the air goodnight yesterday evening. Sometimes he laid in his empty bed and _cried_.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed softly, twisting the fabric of his robes between his fingers. “Maybe. It’s just… I don’t know who I am without her.”

“Well, don’t you think it’s time to find out?”

(A few days later, Lucius Malfoy offered Harry a formal apology and a promise to respect professional boundaries. _Very_ weird.)

* * *

 

Harry reluctantly turned up to the marriage counselling sessions a few weeks later, after assuring Mrs Weasley that he’d definitely be there- no, he didn’t need to come over for lunch, he thought it would be rather awkward, yes he knew he was always welcome at their home, no matter whether he and Ginny were together, no he still wouldn’t be coming for lunch-

The conversation between Harry and Mrs Weasley about the marriage counselling session lasted longer than the actual session did.

Their therapist (or ‘marriage healer’, as she liked to call herself) was a ‘cool’ and ‘hip’ young witch, very fond of using phrases like ‘crossing emotional distance’ and ‘communication participation’; where Harry and Ginny would take turns to tell each other how they _really felt_. All it seemed to do was make the distance between them more obvious and gaping, but at least they were united in their hatred of the therapist.

“Do it for Mum,” Ginny would mutter out of the corner of her mouth, before telling Harry that he’d always been overly jealous of her past boyfriends. Harry would reply that he wouldn’t _need_ to be jealous if they didn’t send her flowers every Valentine’s Day, and Ginny would accuse him of seeing her as undesirable.

The arguments spiralled from there.

He often felt the therapist didn’t understand that truth was what tore their relationship apart. They didn’t need _more_ of it.

This time, however, Ginny was much more subdued. She answered the questions quietly and let Harry lead most of the conversation, which was _very_ unusual. Even their therapist noticed (a small miracle), and asked Ginny if she was okay.

“I’ve just been a bit ill these past days,” Ginny said, waving a hand dismissively (although Harry swore that the movement was slower than usual). “Ignore me.”

“We can’t really do that, dear,” the therapist said, her Irish accent sounding stupendously patronising. “A marriage is between two people, after all.”

“We don’t _have_ a marriage anymore,” Ginny grumbled, irritated, and rubbed her head.

“But that’s what we’re trying to fix, now isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Ginny replied, and groaned. “I’m going to the loo.” She got to her feet, a little unsteadily, and began tottering towards the door. Harry couldn’t understand why she’d chosen to wear heels.

Before she could reach for the door handle, she stumbled. And then it was like watching in slow motion as Ginny sank into a dead faint, her head crunching on the corner of a side table, slammed against the floor as her body crumpled.

Harry rushed to her side, kneeling down and checking for a pulse. Upon finding one, even if the heartbeat was fainter than usual, he unbuttoned her collar to let her breathe. It was there that he found a rash, an angry red mark spreading across her chest. Beneath her head, a red pool of blood spread like a grim halo. Harry didn’t want to know how deep the wound was.

“Merlin’s sake, Gin,” he muttered wretchedly, turning to the therapist. “Call St Mungo’s.”

“I- I don’t-“ the therapist stuttered, looking shell-shocked.

“Call the damn hospital!”

The therapist fled into another room, presumably heading for a fireplace. Harry turned back to the body, taking off his cloak and folding it to rest beneath her head. “Don’t worry, Gin. You’re gonna be fine.”

As he clutched her hand- so _cold_ , why hadn’t he noticed how cold she was?- he desperately hoped that he was right.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Harry entered the Hospital room, a bunch of flowers clutched tightly in one hand. Tom had been so patient, offering kind words and more orange blossoms- “on the house,” he had insisted- even if Harry had been admittedly a little shell-shocked. Harry thought he might have still had Ginny’s dried blood on his hands, so Tom had reacted remarkably well, all things considered.

Surprisingly, his parents were already there, sat by Ginny’s bedside. Lily looked sad, but James was desolate- he and Ginny had always been close. They’d found a lot in common.

“Harry,” Lily said softly, spotting him hovering in the doorway. His mother didn’t say anything else, simply standing up and opening her arms.

Harry rushed towards her, burrowing himself into the safety of her hug. There was nothing like a mother’s embrace, and he breathed deeply, intoxicated by the familiar scent of warm, sweet _safety_. He didn’t know when he started crying, but wasn’t sure how to stop.

He was seized with the sudden urge to explain himself- he didn’t want her to misunderstand, she needed to _get it_ -

“I still love her,” he said, choked, and drew back slightly to gaze desperately into Lily’s eyes.

“Of course you do,” she said, smiling down at him sadly. “She’s one of your best friends.”

Harry slumped, overwhelmed by a wave of pure relief. He should have known his mum would understand, even if Harry himself couldn’t place when he’d fallen out of love with Ginny. Had he even been in love with _her_ in the first place, or just some abstract ideal? He still didn’t know.

“How is she?” Harry asked, glancing reluctantly towards the bed. Ginny looked so pale and still, like she was dead already.

“They don’t really know,” James looked defeated, running a hand through his hair. Silver patches glinted in the candlelight. “Apparently they’ve never seen an illness like this. She’s in a coma at the moment. She might wake up…”

“Or she might not,” Lily finished gently.

“They don’t know what did it?”

James sighed. “It might be a curse, or some kind of allergic reaction- they aren’t sure. It could be exhaustion, for all that they bloody know.”

“But we’re in a hospital!” Harry protested. “We’re in a hospital, and they can’t even diagnose an illness?!”

Lily sighed. “They’re doing their best-“

“But their best isn’t worth _shit_ ,” James said firmly.

“I’ll thank you to remember, darling,” Lily said sternly, pinning James with a disapproving glare, “That we are in a _hospital_ , and some sensitivity would be appropriate.”

“Merlin,” James said, visibly shrinking back. “Did Molly teach you that look?”

Lily simply smiled enigmatically, and turned her attention back to Harry.

“Those are nice flowers, dear,” Lily tried for a light tone, obvious trying to alleviate the mood. “I’ll get a vase, shall I?”

“Er, yeah, thanks.”

Lily waved her wand, and a vase that Harry recognised from his childhood appeared, already full of fresh water. Lily took the flowers from Harry’s hands and performed a quick slicing charm, and then passed them to James expectantly.

“You do it. I was never very good at aesthetics.”

“Am I just a servant to you?” James complained, placing the flowers in the vase decoratively and sprucing up the leaves with a quick spell.

“A slave, dear,” Lily corrected sweetly. “You don’t get paid.”

“Not in money,” James wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, and dodged his wife’s stinging spell.

“There,” Lily said, examining the flower arrangement with satisfaction. “Where did you get them? They’re gorgeous.”

“Aconitum,” Harry replied, before realising that didn’t actually explain anything. “Oh, er, it’s this flower shop on Knockturn Alley that I found by accident. I’ve become…” Harry could feel his face heating up, “…friends with the owner.”

“Friends, eh?” James grinned teasingly.

“Dad, I’m married!” Harry protested laughingly.

Their smiles froze as they glanced over to Ginny’s still body, and the atmosphere became heavy once more.

Lily squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “You know don’t have to put your life on hold, don’t you, dear? Not enjoying yourself won’t help Ginny.”

“I know,” Harry said unconvincingly. “I know.”

* * *

 

The months passed, which Harry filled with work and his- now regular- visits to Aconitum. They were miserable and long, and Harry felt guilty whenever he visited St Mungo’s. What if Ginny was like this because of him? What if the stress got to her? What if she died angry at him?

And then, finally, months later: a break through, and Harry found himself rushing to Aconitum for reasons he didn’t quite know (or want to admit.)

“Ginny woke up!” he announced delightedly, charging into the (eternally empty) store.

Tom’s eyebrows shot up, and he pushed aside a magazine. “She did?”

“Completely unexpected- the doctors were all shocked. Apparently her magic is fighting back.” Harry grinned.

“Do they know what’s wrong with her yet?”

“No. They think it’s some kind of virus, but that’s it.”

“Surely _she_ knows what happened, though.”

“Not really- she says she just remembers getting ill and then a bit of the therapy session before she passed. She couldn’t really say much, she was pretty groggy. Kept insisting that we all looked like broomsticks.”

Tom laughed. “Broomsticks?”

“She’s always been Quidditch mad, even more than Ron. I reckon she could beat Oliver Wood for passion, and he once told me to jump from my broom if it meant I caught the snitch. She practically lives and _breathes_ Quidditch.” Harry smiled softly. “She’s always said she fell in love with my flying.”

“Maybe that was the problem,” Tom suggested. “Too much distance between you. There can’t be much intimacy in a Quidditch match.”

“You’d be surprised.” Harry could still remember the comforting glint of Ginny’s hair in the sunlight, the freedom and safety in knowing you could dive to the ground, and someone could catch you.

“I was never much of a flier,” Tom said. “I always preferred to hole myself up in the library. I was, admittedly, a little asocial.”

“That sounds lonely,” Harry said, who had always had a huge group of larger-than-life friends. Joining Gryffindor was almost like gaining a noisy, unwanted extended family.

“I had a few close associates,” Tom replied, looking reflective. “I was focused, and it worked out in the end. I got what I wanted.”

“You were a Slytherin, weren’t you?” Harry remembered. “I always forget that. It seems a bit odd for a Slytherin to end up working in a flower shop.”

“There’s ambition in everything,” Tom said musingly. “The sweetest flower hides the sharpest thorn.”

Harry snorted. “Flower metaphors.”

“Yes,” Tom agreed, his smile very _aware_. “Metaphors. Anyway, I’m sure Ginny will recover soon. It sounds like she’s still fighting strong.”

“Yeah,” Harry smiled fondly. “She always was a fighter. We’re all very relieved- we thought for a while…” he suppressed a shudder, and tried for something cheerful. “Yeah, well, maybe Molly will stop bursting into tears now. It gets a bit uncomfortable when you’re all having dinner, and she starts sobbing into the potatoes.”

“I can imagine.”

“Ginny finds it hilarious. Keeps offering her a tissue.”

“Ginny has quite the sense of humour.”

Harry was distant, staring down at the pile of severed rose stems. “It’s one of the things I fell in love with her for.”

“Such a shame that we can fall out of love as easily as we stumble in,” Tom murmured, and as Harry glanced up, he was caught in Tom’s gaze. It was almost magnetic, and Tom’s eyes seemed to be saying something just out of Harry’s reach.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled hoarsely. “Shame.”

“Would you like to identify the flowers?” Tom asked suddenly, breaking the spell. He gestured towards the counter, where Harry noticed a pile of newly-cut roses. They looked normal- he didn’t know why they needed ‘identifying’.

Harry coughed. “Er, yeah, sure. I can do that… But aren’t they just roses?”

Tom chuckled, and Harry felt like he’d missed a joke. “They’re never _just_ roses.”

Tom waved his wand (Harry would never get over how elegant _Tom_ was), and a book, the one Harry had seen what felt like years ago, appeared in front of him. Harry glanced up at Tom for permission, and received an encouraging nod in return.

He opened the cover and turned the pages gently, his eyes widening at the meticulousness of Tom’s handwritten and hand drawn notes and diagrams. Only Hermione’s notes matched up to this thorough neatness.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Harry muttered.

His attention was drawn to a particularly vibrant page, showing a pretty flower in the same shade of silvery-blue as a patronus. It had some kind of Latin name that Harry didn’t even try to pronounce, but his eyes focussed on the summarised purpose.

“Aids in memory loss,” Harry murmured. “I didn’t know there was a flower for that.”

He flicked through the rest of the book, spotting catchy titles like ‘Peeping Poppies’, and ‘Turthurinthiums’. Eventually, he came to the right page and- glancing between the image and the flowers in front of him to check they matched- he asked Tom if they were sunshine roses.

“Perfect,” Tom said, joining Harry very close and laying a hand over the page, fingertips barely touching his. The gesture felt like approval. “Soon, it’ll be almost like you work here.”

* * *

 

“Hey Gin!” Harry announced cheerfully, sweeping into the hospital wing room. It had been almost two weeks since Ginny woke up, and she was looking better and better every day.

“Broom-shagger,” she grumbled, hiding under the covers from piercing sunlight as Harry flung the curtains open.

“That’s entirely inappropriate language,” Harry grinned. “We’re in a hospital.”

“I know,” Ginny glared at him balefully, her head appeared from beneath the sheets. “I’m the patient.”

“So I suppose you won’t want breakfast then…” Harry unshrunk and unfroze an English breakfast from his bag, and sent it to hover over the bed.

That caught her attention.

“Give.” Ginny gestured impatiently, finally pulling the covers down to his waist, and Harry left the plate come to a rest on her lap, along with a pair of cutlery.

Ginny wasted little time in shredding the bacon and stuffing it into her mouth, followed closely by a forkful of baked beans.

“The f’d here tastes like b’llocks,” she explained whilst chewing. “I’m starvin’.”

“You look an awful lot like Ron right now,” Harry commented thoughtfully, and dodged the pillow she sent flying in his direction.

“I brought flowers too,” he said, pulling them out of his bag again. “From Tom.”

“More flowers from Tom?” Ginny said suggestively, watching as Harry removed the old ones and replaced them with a fresh bouquet. “They’re different today.”

“Said he felt like a change,” Harry shrugged.

“They’re a gorgeous colour,” Ginny commented.

She was right: the pink tone to the petals was luxurious and rich, and this came from Harry, who associated any shade of pink with unpleasant memories of family visits to his Aunt and Uncle’s.

Ginny went back to eating, and Harry took a seat by the bed.

“So how’s that investigation going?” Ginny asked finally, pausing briefly in her feast.

“Huh?”

“That investigation you mentioned ages ago. Into the Minister.”

“You listened?” Harry asked, very surprised and rather excited.

“Look, I’m not saying I believe you, and I _still_ don’t think Lucius Malfoy is some kind of Dementor, but you seemed quite passionate about it. I thought I’d see what you had to say.”

The momentary excitement left Harry, and he slumped. “I’ve hit a bit of a brick wall,” he admitted. “You know I told you about the owl? Well, I passed the letter onto this guy who said that he could trace it back to its sender. It’d been a while since I got an update, so I looked into it. Turns out he died when his house burned down months ago, so that explains it.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“ _I_ think it was foul play. He just ‘happened’ to burn to death on the evening that I sent the letter to him,” Harry glowered, “but the Ministry disagrees. So the letter’s gone and Malfoy’s covered up his tracks irritatingly well. I’ve been reduced to rifling through newspapers of his old campaign for anything suspicious.”

“Well, if anyone can find it, it’s you,” Ginny said generously. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so bloody-minded and stubborn.”

“Thanks,” Harry grinned.

Ginny rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway. “You know, our marriage is a lot better when we’re not actually _together_ ,” she commented.

“You’ve always been my best friend, Gin,” Harry said earnestly. “You’re confident and you have a wicked sense of humour- you can make me feel alive like no one else, seriously. I just don’t think you’re meant to be my wife.”

“We’ll get a divorce when I get out of this Merlin-forsaken place,” Ginny said decisively. “I’m not letting mum keep us both miserable anymore. Beside, Dean popped by the other day, and he’s gotten _really_ fit.”

The two smiled at each other almost manically, recognising a kind of easy openness that hadn’t been present in their relationship for _years_.

“You’re getting out in a week,” Harry said. “Hold on ‘til then, and _then_ you can jump Dean.”

“And you can grab that hot florist of yours,” Ginny replied, wriggling her eyebrows. “I’m fairly sure none of these flowers are actually for _me_.”

“’Course they are,” Harry insisted, flushing red. “He told me so.”

“No straight man sends this many flowers to his ‘friend’s’ estranged wife,” Ginny teased. “He’s either a serial killer, or he’s _very_ into you. Or both.”

Harry rolled his eyes, and drank in the image of Ginny; healthy and smiling. _This_ was how he wanted it to go. A chapter ending.

“I’m sorry,” Ginny said suddenly. “For the lying. For the whole thing. It’s just… in Hogwarts, everyone knew that if you wanted to get to know Harry Potter, you had to be in the DA. And I didn’t really _get_ the DA… but I wanted _you_. So I joined and then I lied, and then we were going on dates, and how did I bring up ‘oh sorry, I actually don’t mind Lucius Malfoy’?”

Harry sighed. “You know what you _don’t_ do? You don’t _marry_ me, Ginny.”

“But I _wanted_ to marry you,” she said fiercely. “More than anything. But then we were moving in, and talking about kids, and I thought I could keep it up, even if you were distant- and then there was that stupid day when I just blurted out the truth. I don’t even know what came over me.”

Harry did.

“And then you wouldn’t even _touch_ me, Harry!” Ginny said hotly. “And you were barely ever home- you looked at me like I was _dirt_.  Just because I don’t hate Lucius Malfoy-”

“That’s not why!” Harry protested. “You didn’t need to do any of this, Gin. I just wanted someone who _listened…_ I wanted a relationship. Not a performance. And not some clone of myself.”

“Sometimes I miss that version of me,” Ginny admitted. “She was easier.”

“I don’t. She was a lie.” Harry took a deep breath. “I suppose this might be partly my fault. You always seemed so strong and composed- but I think you might just have been hiding. And I never really tried to break past that, did I?”

“Maybe.” Ginny looked down, and she looked so sad and lost that Harry reached out to her.

“Just hold on, Gin,” he said softly, and hugged her tightly. It was like hugging a memory. “You’ll be right as rain soon.”

* * *

 

Harry could not have been more wrong.

* * *

 

_QUIDDITCH REPORTER DIES IN ST MUNGO’S HOSPITAL_

_In the early hours of this morning, Quidditch reporter Ginny Potter succumbed to an unknown illness in St Mungo’s Hospital._

_“Ms Potter had been on the path to recovery,” claimed Head Healer, Maximus Rue, “But for some reason, her symptoms were exacerbated very suddenly last night, and Ms Potter passed mere hours after.”_

_Her death has caused a sudden panic amongst the public, as Ms Potter is the first patient to die of an unidentified disease in forty-two years, since the dramatic outbreak of blood malediction which took the life of some thirty witches and wizards until a cure was created by famous Healer Horace Slughorn._

_A spokesperson for the hospital told the Daily Prophet that “St Mungo’s is entirely safe, there is no need for a panic. This was an isolated case, and is in no way an indication of foul play or an epidemic. The best thing for the public to do is stay calm.”_

_Ms Potter is survived by her loving family, and her husband: Harry Potter, now a widower, who works for the Ministry within the Auror department. That same Auror department will soon be launching an investigation to look for any wrong-doings conducted by the hospital staff, or, indeed, any evidence of foul play._

* * *

 

Tom met Harry’s parents at the funeral. Harry wasn’t sure why he’d invited the florist- he just wanted a friend there who wasn’t looking at Harry and mourning his and Ginny’s _perfect marriage_ and their _wonderful future together_. He wanted someone who _got it_.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Tom said politely, presenting Lily with an arrangement of black roses.

“Oh, they’re beautiful,” Lily said gratefully, cooing over them.

“You must be Tom,” James said, and held out his hand. He looked vaguely disapproving, and Harry was distinctly reminded of the first time he brought Ginny home.

“Tom Riddle,” Tom smiled, and shook James’ hand firmly.

James looked friendlier as they broke apart, and Harry decided that men were stupid. All it took was a handshake, and his father was all smiles for the new boy- for the new _friend_. Friend.

For Merlin’s sake, it was his wife’s funeral.

The wind in the graveyard grew suddenly colder.

“I think the ceremony’s starting soon,” Harry said grimly, glancing towards the ceremony official, who was looking more and more excitedly ‘somber’.

His parents gave him a parting hug and wandered towards Molly and Arthur, exchanging condolences.

“I’ll be here,” Tom promised quietly, squeezing Harry’s hand. It was like Harry held an ember nestled in his palm, and he took a deep breath. He could do this.

The ceremony seemed to fly by. The coffin was lowered into the ground, the ceremony official waffled on, and Molly gave a halting speech before bursting into tears. Harry had been asked to say a few words, but he’d refused. He didn’t know what he’d say.

_Here lies Ginny: we were about to get a divorce, but I miss her so much that every time I think of her I want to rip the fucking heart from my chest and crush it to dust._

He thought not.

Harry spent most of the actual burial feeling numb. He stared straight ahead, noticing the way that the wind tugged on the tree branches, making it seem almost like they were waving goodbye.

It wasn’t until the after party, when they had all trudged on towards the Burrow, that Harry really felt anything. That it all hit him. The staggering realisation that he’d never talk to Ginny again sort of crept up on him, tapping him on the shoulder lightly and draping over his shoulders. His chest suddenly felt tighter, and his hands started shaking.

The world slowed, voices fading away to a low, threatening rumble and the people around him moved distantly and heavily, like viewed through a thick sheet of glass. His lungs constricted and he drew in a shuddering breath. He tried to look around for someone- _Tom_ \- to help, but every inch he tried to turn his head made him feel like he was going to burst into tears. Or flames.

Suddenly, from nowhere, pair of arms wrapped tightly around him. Harry felt frozen, his arms pinned to his side. He couldn’t _move_. He could barely gasp through his teeth.

“I’m so sorry!” a voice declared, very close to his ear and so _loud_ (he flinched), and he vaguely recognised the voice. Hermione.

“G-Ginny’s dead,” he stuttered distantly. “She’s gone.”

“I _know_ ,” Hermione said feelingly. “I can’t believe it either. Do you remember Hogwarts: when we had a DA meeting and we used to sneak down to the Quidditch pitch? Ginny would always steal a broom, and you’d dare her-“

Hermione kept talking, but Harry couldn’t hear a word, his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. He became aware that he was mouthing something, trying to say anything that could stop her talking, but the words were stuck in his throat. He felt like he was screaming underwater.

Suddenly, he was drawn out of Hermione’s arms gently, but firmly. The guiding hand was like an anchor, jerking him back to the present.

“You must be Tom,” Hermione said. “You did the flowers for the funeral. They were lovely.”

“Thank you,” Tom said politely. “I just thought I’d come over and rescue Harry. He was looking a tad overwhelmed.”

“Oh!” She gasped, blanching. “Oh Harry, I’m sorry. I was doing that thing again, where I over-talk, wasn’t I? Ron always tells me I do that. He’s looking for you, by the way. Although I think he got distracted by the buffet.”

“It’s fine.” His voice was hoarse, raw and bleeding. “I- I feel...”He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I know you and Ginny weren’t happy,” Hermione said quietly. “I… I can’t understand what this is like for you. I’m so _sorry_ , Harry.” And she placed a single touch to his cheek, smiling sadly. “You deserve to be happy.”

Harry choked, and realised he was crying.

“He will be,” Tom said. “I’ll look after him.”

“So _this_ is where you’ve been then,” Hermione said thoughtfully, laying a hand on Harry’s arm and scanning Tom discerningly.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to reply.

Hermione sighed, and pressed a light kiss to Harry’s forehead. “Call me, okay? I haven’t seen you in the Ministry for ages.  You could come over for dinner? Ron would love to see you.”

Harry nodded mutely, and Hermione left with a concerned backwards glance. As she whispered into Neville’s ear on the other side of the room, Neville frowned and caught Harry’s eye, mouthing: ‘are you okay?’

Harry tried for another nod, but thought it probably came out like a twitch. The tears were still wet on his cheeks, and he turned away from the pair with a pained stab in his chest. He had to get away.

“I know you’re not ‘fine’, so don’t try and tell me that you are,” Tom said, following Harry as he wandered into a corridor and ducked into a rarely-used store cupboard. The Burrow lived up to its name: an endless supply of tiny interconnected spaces.

“I just… I didn’t realise she was dead,” Harry stuttered, stumbling as the tears welled up again. “I didn’t realise she was _gone_.”

And he fell forwards onto Tom, practically wailing.

“I hate her,” he gasped, barely able to see through the tears. “ _I hate her_. She made me hate her and then she _left_.”

Tom enfolding him into an embrace and Harry practically melted into his robes, his fingers tangled in Tom’s collar. He sobbed for what must have been half an hour, until he was left faintly sniffling and shaking, energy drained.

“I don’t want to go back to that empty apartment,” he mumbled, exhausted. “Knowing why it’s empty.”

“Move in with me.”

Harry could have thought of a billion reasons why that was a terrible idea- they’d only know each other for a matter of months after all, but somehow, staring into Tom’s kind, very handsome face, a quiet “okay” tripped from his tongue.

And that, in the end, was that.

* * *

 

As it turned out, Tom lived in a spacious apartment above Aconitum, which Harry moved into the following weekend.

“Why didn’t I know this existed?” he complained, lugging boxes up the stairs.

(Tom had suggested that Harry levitate them, which prompted Harry to launch into a lengthy campaign on why wizards shouldn’t become dependent on magic. Tom had actually offered some thoughtful counterpoints, which left Harry blinking in surprise. No one ever _responded_ to his rants. No one ever listened to them enough- other than Hermione, of course, but she tended to agree with him.)

“I don’t spend that much time in the apartment,” Tom called down. He had levitated his share of the boxes, and was now watching Harry carry his with vague bemusement. “There’s a kitchen adjoined to the shop, as you know, so I only really sleep upstairs.”

Harry mentally linked Tom and beds together, and tried to conceal his blush.

There was a sudden knock from downstairs.

That was strange. Aconitum _never_ had customers.

Tom’s face shifted: suddenly darker than Harry had ever seen before. It was just a flicker; a moment and Tom was back to normal, but it left Harry reeling.

“I’ll get the door,” Tom said, obviously irritated.

And then he swept past Harry, back down the stairs towards the shop, and all at once he seemed like _more_ than just a florist. His robes flowed around him like waves crashing on the shore, his shoulders cut a strong, angry line-

Harry tore his eyes away from Tom’s irritatingly well-formed shoulders, and continued up the stairs. That was not an avenue he wanted to pursue. Beside, why would _Tom_ want _Harry_? He’d dealt with Harry’s endless complaints about his marriage- he doubted Tom was itching to jump into that role.

Harry continued carting the box up the stairs, and flung it into the spare room. And then he went downstairs to see who Tom was talking to.

What? Let it never be said that Harry Potter let something like privacy get in the way of satisfying his own curiosity.

* * *

 

“I’ve been patient, Smith, but my patience has limits.”

“I’m _trying_ , but it’s not easy to find out what he left-“

The voice broke off as Harry entered the shop, but he recognised it anyway. Zacharias Smith, looking penitent but defensive, was stood opposite Tom as they both stared at Harry.

Harry raised his hand in an awkward wave.

“Potter?” Smith frowned. “Why are _you_ here?”

“Harry’s just moving in to live with me,” Tom replied.

“He is?” Smith’s eyebrows raised, and he glanced between Tom and Harry.

“No,” Tom said sardonically. “I’m lying, obviously.” And his hand shifted to his side.

“I- I should go,” Smith said suddenly, his eyes following Tom’s hand. Harry had no idea why. “I’ll see you at the office, Potter.”

“Actually,” Harry said, making a sudden decision. “I’m taking some time off. I don’t think I could handle… you know.”

Tom’s other hand was a comforting presence at the small of his back.

“Yes, the investigation into Ginny’s death is starting soon, isn’t it?” Smith said insensitively, and then suddenly turned very white: pale and drained of colour. “I should go. Now.”

And then he turned and fled.

“What an odd little man,” Tom said pleasantly.

Harry snorted and punched his arm. “Shut up. He’s good with plants, though. I suppose that’s why you were talking?”

“Yes. Something like that.”

A soft hoot had Harry glancing up, to notice a distinctive white owl perched in the eaves. It looked familiar- Harry thought it might have delivered him a letter before.

“That’s a nice owl.”

“Hmm?” Tom said curiously, following Harry’s gaze. “Oh yes. It does long haul deliveries for me sometimes.”

“Has it got a name?”

“I like to call it Mendacium.”

“That’s a nice name.”

Tom’s lips quirked, and his eyes gleamed. “Isn’t it just?”

* * *

 

“Have you seen this?” Harry asked excitedly, rushing down the stairs and jumping up to perch on the edge of the shop counter. He brandished a newspaper at Tom, who looked politely interested.

Harry shook out the paper dramatically and cleared his throat, reading the article aloud. “Yesterday, Minister Malfoy announced his decision to introduce a branch of the Muggleborn Registration Department that will formally vet and monitor the pureblood homes in which muggleborns are placed. Despite objections about the high tax increases and further restrictions on pureblood families, the Minister has assured the public that it is necessary to counter the ‘possible connection between high suicide rates and unfortunately placed muggleborns’. He does however ask the public to keep in mind the severe drop in muggleborn abuse cases and muggle hate crimes that have resulted from the Registration.”

Tom raised an eyebrow elegantly. “How extraordinary.”

“This is amazing,” Harry said strongly. “I mean, fuck Malfoy for saying that it’s a ‘possible connection’- he knows damn well what happened with Colin Creevey- but this is a step in the right direction.” He couldn’t stop grinning,

Tom didn’t look quite as excited, but he smiled at Harry’s joy. “I’m glad you’re happy. Surely you now have little cause to hate the Minister? He seems to be doing good things.”

Harry frowned, and his joy dimmed a little. “But I’m not sure this _is_ Malfoy.”

“What do you mean?”

Harry bit his lip and considered Tom, jumping down from the counter. “Come on,” he muttered, and lead Tom to the kitchen by his wrist. Tom followed obediently, although he wore a subtle smirk, like he thought Harry was being faintly ridiculous.

As Harry pulled the kitchen door closed behind them, he glanced around, although he wasn’t exactly sure what he expected to see- perhaps Ministry pixies, hovering behind him and listening in.

Tom looked bemused. “Is this really necessary?”

“It’s sensitive information,” Harry said at last. “And important.”

“I’m listening.”

And that was all Harry needed to hear. He told Tom of receiving the mysterious owl that day in the Ministry, and his suspicions of Malfoy, and the odd death when he tried to trace the letter, and his unexplainable, absolute _certainty_ that Malfoy was not what he seemed.

At the end of it all, Tom cocked his head and appeared to think it over.

“Surely,” he began slowly, “If this mysterious person _is_ behind Malfoy’s actions, then it’s a good thing. They seem to hold… sympathy for muggleborns.”

Something flickered in Tom’s eyes that Harry couldn’t- _wouldn’t_ -decipher (it didn’t look a lot like disgust, it _didn’t_ ).

“And so perhaps,” Tom continued, “it might be wise to let them make those changes undisturbed.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “But not if they brought the Registration into effect in the first-” Harry froze, his heart nearly freezing with him, and he gazed up at Tom with wide eyes.

“What is it?”

Harry was suddenly aware of how tight and constricted the tiny kitchen was; the gap between their chests was barely the length of a wand. Tom’s breath was warm and intimate on his skin. “You _believe_ me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Tom said simply.

And something in Harry’s chest sparked- the excitement and attraction striking an unstoppable flame, and his breath became shallow.

“You… you think I’m right.”

Tom nodded.

“You _believe me_ ,” Harry breathed.

And suddenly Harry was crossing the short distance between them, sliding off his glasses and tilting his head.

And then they were kissing.

For a brief moment, Harry panicked- oh god he was kissing Tom, what if Tom hated him, what if Tom didn’t- but when Tom responded hungrily, Harry’s world imploded. Tom was fierce and passionate and _burning_ , lacing a hand through Harry’s hair in a gesture that clearly said ‘ _mine’_.

Tom’s teeth tugged sharply at his bottom lip and Harry moaned into the kiss, his skin hot and flushed. Harry’s arms wound around Tom’s waist and pulled him closer, running a greedy hand over Tom’s chest.

“Oh my god,” Harry gasped as they broke apart, but Tom barely gave him a moment to breath, pushing him backwards. Harry grunted a little as his back collided with the wall, but before he could properly think it, Tom’s mouth was over his once more.

When they finally broke apart, Harry’s mind felt fuzzily frazzled, and he blinked up at Tom. “I…”

“I thought you wouldn’t want me,” Tom said, and it was the most vulnerable Harry had ever heard him. Harry couldn’t see properly- he was blind as a bat without his glasses- but he thought there might have been a flash of red across Tom’s face.

“Clearly you were wrong,” Harry grinned ruefully.

“I was,” Tom replied, looking a little in awe of Harry, and then he pressed their lips together again. It was gentle and sweet this time, and they moved in tandem, drinking in warmth from the other.

When the kiss ended, Harry’s forehead was pressed against Tom’s, and he smiled dopily. “I guess I won’t be needing the spare bedroom after all.”

“No,” Tom agreed, squeezing Harry’s hand. “You won’t.”

* * *

“I’m so glad you could come over, Harry,” Hermione said as she closed the front door behind him and drew him into a hug. “I don’t see you nearly often enough these days.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry shrugged. “A lot’s been going on, hasn’t it?”

“It really has. How _are_ you?” Hermione fussed, as she led them into the sitting room. The Longbottom-Weasley house was very different to the Burrow; all open-plan and filled with light; modern touches dotted around the place.

Harry took a seat on the sofa, plucking a mug out of the air as it came flying towards him, obeying a small twitch of Hermione’s wand. He took a sip and closed his eyes in satisfaction. His favourite.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, the words ringing more true than they had at the funeral. “Trying to keep busy.”

“You haven’t gone back to work yet, have you?” Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “Do you have any plans for when you might?”

“I dunno,” Harry said. “I don’t think I can deal with investigating Ginny’s death, so I’ll probably go back when it’s all wrapped up. I’m enjoying the vacation though. It’s nice working in Tom’s shop.”

Hermione blinked, a little taken aback. “You’re working with Tom?”

“Yes, well, I live with him now.”

“You _live_ with him?!” she squawked.

“Well, we’re dating-“

“You’re WHAT?!”

Hermione’s screech was so loud that it brought Ron charging into the room, swearing and brandishing his wand.

“Blimey, Hermione!” he panted, taking in a shocked-looking Harry and Hermione.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows in a uniquely Hermione ‘you are an idiot’ way.

“I thought you were being attacked! Or my mum when Fred and George have done something stupid.”

Harry snorted softly.

“I _asked_ you to stop comparing me to your mother, Ronald,” Hermione said stiffly, her cheeks going a faint pink. “You didn’t marry your mother.”

“I know I didn’t,” Ron said fondly, putting his wand away and pecking his wife on the lips. “My mum would never wear what you did last night-“

“Ron!” Hermione said shrilly, turning a nice shade of maroon. “We have company.”

“I noticed,” Ron said cheerfully, sitting down beside her. “Hey mate.”

“Hey Ron,” Harry grinned back. “And no offence, but I don’t want to know what Hermione was wearing. Some things are best kept private, I reckon.”

“Fair enough,” Ron shrugged. “You’re missing out though, mate. Best moment of my life.”

“ _Ron_!” Hermione repeated, but her smile was a little pleased. “Not now.”

“Whatever you say, my darling wife. As always, you are both terrifying and awe-inspiring.” Ron pressed a light kiss to her cheek.

“You’re not as charming as you think you are,” Hermione said sharply, but couldn’t hide a smirk. “Besides, there are more important things to discuss. Harry’s _dating_ _Tom Riddle_.”

Ron froze. “ _Dating_?” he stuttered. “But you and Gin-“

The joviality fell away for a brief minute, and Harry saw a shadow of grief dancing behind Ron’s eyes. But the moment passed, and Ron’s grin was back.

“The flower shop bloke? Nice one.” And Ron held out his hand for a high-five, which Harry accepted reluctantly. The air was suddenly thick with tension, and Ron was the only one unwilling to acknowledge it.

Ron leaned forward on the sofa, ignoring how stiff Hermione had gotten. “Is he good looking then? I don’t know what you look for in a bloke. Nice bum? Abs? Nipples? I think Charlie got his nipples pierced once, and he’s into all that gay stuff. It was great: Mum couldn’t even go ballistic, ‘cause she had to be ‘supportive of his identity’-”

“Dear,” Hermione said loudly. “Would you pop out and grab us some milk? And walk back from the shop, please, you know I don’t like it when it’s apparated.”

“Sure. I’ll be back in a bit,” Ron said, getting to his feet and giving Harry a light hug. “Come around again, yeah? Bring Tom- we can go for a pint. Hermione’s a _monster_.”

“I just have a high tolerance,” she protested.

Ron snorted, pulling on his coat. “Last Wednesday, she drank three blokes under the table, and then gave us all a lecture on the manufacturing process of Firewhiskey.”

“The legalities are fascinating,” Hermione assured Harry as she ushered her husband out of the door. “Bring back some semi-skimmed!” she called out, and slammed it shut.

Harry’s entire body lost tension as they listened to the sound of Ron’s footsteps retreating.

“How is he?” Harry frowned.

“Coping,” Hermione said. “Obviously everyone is devastated- you know that- but Ron and Ginny were always very close. The two youngest, and all that.”

Harry nodded, and wondered if he should feel guilty for not being torn up.

“No, don’t feel bad,” Hermione said quickly, taking a seat beside Harry and covered one of his hands with hers. “It’s brilliant that you’re moving on. And your relationship with Ginny was obviously very different to Ron’s. You’re coping in your own way.”

She leant her head on his shoulder, and Harry was fiercely reminded of cosy evenings in the Gryffindor common room, gathered around the fireplace, all piled onto the comfy armchairs. They had to wait until seventh year to grab those armchairs. They had to _earn_ them.

“We just want you to be happy,” Hermione murmured.

“I am,” Harry replied, a smile lighting up his features involuntarily. “Really. Tom’s great.”

Hermione drew away from Harry and narrowed her eyes at his distant expression, before her eyes widened in comprehension. “You’re _in love_ ,” she breathed softly, like the feeling might crack if she spoke too loud.

“I’m not ‘in love’, ‘Mione,” Harry said, a little exasperated. “It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?”

“Mark my words, Harry Potter,” Hermione announced. “I’ve never known you to do anything by halves. You’ll realise you’re in love with that boy soon enough. Just you wait.”

“I think you’re being overdramatic-”

“Just. You. Wait.”

* * *

 

Harry, as it turned out, _was_ deliriously in love.

He and Tom had been dating for a few months, but it felt like both years _and_ seconds had passed in that time. His father and friends had been surprised to see him fall so quickly after Ginny… passed, but Lily had offered him a sweet smile and told him that she’d known the whole time, and Hermione had made sure to show her full support, as long as he was happy.

And he _was_.

Harry glanced over at Tom, lying on the other side of the bed, the duvet gathered around his waist as he thumbed through a copy of the Daily Prophet, and grinned.

Tom was brilliant, as Harry had quickly learnt. His brain worked in ways that Harry couldn’t even begin to understand, leaping from conclusion to conclusion. Tom kept up with all the latest academic journals, and his essays were regularly featured. He even read _Transfiguration Theory_ before bed. Said it ‘relaxed him’.

Harry really couldn’t work out what Tom was doing working in a flower shop. Granted, it was a flower shop that _he_ owned… but with Tom’s brains and charm, he could have easily been Minister. Or a really terrifying Dark Lord.

Harry chuckled at the idea, peering down at an old article on Grindelwald’s imprisonment. Tom as a Dark Lord- that was a hilarious thought.

Harry put another article to the side, barely able to stomach looking at Malfoy’s smug face any longer. He’d brought the articles on Malfoy’s campaign to bed again, in the hopes that whilst looking through them something would leap out at him. It hadn’t yet, but Harry was fairly desperate. He _had_ to know who was controlling Lucius Malfoy.

“Are you still looking at those?” Tom asked absently, turning another page. “You’re not going to find anything on your third look through.”

“I might,” Harry said stubbornly, despite his blurring vision.

Tom got very exasperated whenever Harry brought articles or reports to bed. He liked to claim that _he_ would never bring work into the bedroom, and Harry would helpfully point out the Dragon Tree in the corner.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Tom rolled his eyes and glanced over at Harry. His body seemed to ripple over the sheets until suddenly he was crouched over Harry, his bare skin barely skimming Harry’s chest. Despite himself, Harry’s breathing quickened.

“Is that really how you want to spend the night?” Tom murmured against Harry’s neck, pressing a soft kiss beneath his ear. “We could be having so much more fun doing _other things_.”

Harry let out a low groan involuntarily, and his hips rolled. Tom smirked against his collarbone.

No. He needed to stop this. Tom was trying to distract him.

He took a moment to gather himself, and pushed Tom off of him. “No, not now. You _know_ this is important.”

Tom looked disappointed, but nodded in acquiescence. His eyebrows shot up when he spotted the article still lying in Harry’s hands.

“Huh.”

“What?”

Tom peered over Harry’s shoulder. “Can I take a look at that? I think Borgin mentioned something about it the other day.”

“Sure,” Harry allowed, his cheeks still a little red, and passed the clipping over.

“And would you mind terribly making me some tea? I have an awful headache.”

Harry huffed and suggested that perhaps Tom shouldn’t read in half-darkness then, but kissed his forehead and trudged towards the stairs obligingly.

“Just put the article back in the pile!” he called out.

“I will!”

Harry smiled when he later saw the article, crinkle-free, placed carefully back on his pile. _God_ , he loved Tom.

* * *

 

But of course, all good things must come to an end.

* * *

 

It was looking through the newspaper articles all over again that did it.

Harry was tired, Tom was out picking up some samples of a new vine somewhere, and so Harry made the decision to leaf through the old articles from the Malfoy campaign for the hundredth time. Perhaps he had missed something.

And so, in the late hours of the evening, when Harry was nearly falling asleep, he noticed an odd sheen to one of the articles. The one Tom had asked to see. It wasn’t particularly interesting- mostly about rejuvenation in Knockturn Alley; some kind of early Malfoy charity work. It was right from the beginning of the campaign, before Malfoy had even announced his move into politics, which made it nearly 30 years old. The sheen Harry had noticed was over the photo, showing a sly, young Lucius Malfoy shaking hands with an over-enthused business owner.

Harry could remember Ginny telling him about this specific effect, when she thought that she wanted to go into newspapers rather than radio. The sheen was an indication that the photo had been altered by magic post-publication, which meant you could restore the original photo…

Well, curiosity killed the cat.

“Pictura restituatio,” Harry muttered, and flicked his wand.

The ink raised itself off of the page and swarmed over the paper like a colony of ants, reforming and changing. Whenever it finally settled, the photo was mostly the same.

Except for the shops in the background: Aconitum now nestled smugly amongst them.

That wasn’t right.

Tom would only have been 5 when this picture was taken, and unless he built Aconitum as a 5 year old, this photo was _wrong_.

…Or _Tom_ was wrong.

Harry squinted into the windows of the little, flat shop; and sure enough, standing in the window and smirking down on the proceedings was Tom, looking identical to when Harry had kissed him goodbye this morning.

Harry’s mouth dropped into a little ‘o’ of shock, and he frowned as he reached up a finger to cover the image of Tom’s face. But no, when he pulled the finger away again, it was still there. Tom’s smug little smirk.

And then it sunk in.

Tom had been _lying to Harry_.

And everything slid into place, somehow, magically; like finding the last puzzle piece under the sofa.

Tom was the Minister’s puppet-master.

He didn’t know why he was suddenly so certain, but he _was_.

Someone had to have tampered with this photo, and Tom was in the perfect position to sneak into his possessions. And Malfoy had apologised only _after_ Harry had complained to Tom; and those recent Amendments to the Muggleborn registration… they had Tom written all over them.

Because they had _Harry_ written all over them.

It all made sense: why else would someone as brilliant as Tom be working in a flower shop?

Unless that wasn’t _all_ he did.

 _Tom_ had sent that owl, that fateful day. Harry had even seen that very same animal, winging around the eaves of the shop when Smith came in. He just hadn’t recognised it.

Mendacium.

Harry didn’t understand why Tom was apparently actually at least 60 years old, he didn’t understand why Tom had been involved in all this secrecy, he didn’t understand _why_ \- but only one thing really mattered.

_Tom had lied to Harry._

* * *

 

Harry had to see if there was anything else suspicious.

He had to _know_.

He descended the stairs hazily, as if in a dream, guided by a shaking hold on the handrail. He wandered into the shop, numbed by shock as it plunged like a wave of icy cold water down his back.

This couldn’t be happening.

He summoned the Flower Register- if there was anything to be found, surely Tom would keep it in there. And as he flicked through the book, now that the veil had been lifted, now that he could _see_ , he began _recognising_ things.

The orange flowers- so lovingly carried to Ginny on the eve of their breakup- latched onto a person’s magical core and slowly broke down their immune system. They were responsible for Ginny’s collapse.

Smith had lied when he said they were harmless. Of course he had.

Harry barely noticed collapsing to the floor.

The next page showed the pink flowers, brought the evening before Ginny’s sudden deterioration- caused swift and painful death.

_Tom did this._

And then the Peeping Poppies… the flowers that spied.

“They were in that first bouquet,” Harry breathed softly, horrified. They were the flowers with the delightful little faces.

Tom had heard everything that Harry had said, from the moment they met.

“I was always listening, Harry. To everything you said, in fact.”

That voice had never before made Harry’s heart sink, but now he turned with something close to _horror_ at seeing his partner leaning casually in the doorway. Just like the first day they met.

“Initially,” Tom admitted easily, “I rather wanted to kill you.”

 “ _Tom_ ,” Harry said lowly, his voice like a sob. “ _Why_?”

“Because I sent that owl, as I’m sure you’ve worked out,” Tom shrugged. “That initial letter that sparked your investigation. And I was curious to see how far you’d get, and how swiftly I’d have to end you. But you can be awfully charming, Harry, and plans changed. There were… _different_ ways that I could control you.”

“Control me?” Harry laughed savagely. “I’m in love with you!”

“Love is a terrible thing,” Tom smiled twistedly. “It’s probably why you’re still alive.”

“Did you kill Ginny?”

Tom said nothing for a moment, watching Harry like his breakdown was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“ _Tom_ ,” Harry repeated wretchedly. “Did you kill Ginny?”

“Yes.”

Harry let out something that wanted to be a roar, but the sound came out more like a whimper. His head hung low, but he mustered up the strength to whisper. “But... how did you know that _I_ wouldn’t die as well?”

Tom crouched down, so that he was on eye level with Harry, and then he smirked carelessly. “Your locket, that first day. The one that ‘caught’ on the hook.”

“…It had her hair in it.”

“It was the simplest thing to steal, and then all I had to do was key the poison to her magical signature. It was painfully simple, Harry- you really made it too easy.”

Harry sobbed, his limbs shaking. How could Tom _do_ this? “I don’t _understand_. Why all the secrecy? Why didn’t you just run for Minister in the first place?”

Harry felt frozen in place, unable to move as Tom crept closer and closer, and finally sat down beside him, pulling Harry into a sideways embrace.

“It might have perhaps gone differently,” Tom said softly, “if my mother had died younger. Perhaps I would have become Minister: a symbol for all. But I went to that orphanage _knowing_ the wizarding world. I knew that a light touch, a subtle guidance, and a shadow puppet master was the only way to _truly_ rule the Wizarding World. I went to that orphanage knowing Albus Dumbledore. And so I planned.”

“But why a florist?” Harry’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Because I like flowers. And who would suspect the florist?” Tom asked teasingly, raising a single eyebrow. “ _You_ didn’t.”

Harry, finally spent, crumbled into Tom’s side, completely losing use of his limbs. “I’m done,” he murmured. “Just kill me.”

“I wouldn’t kill you.” Tom seemed genuinely offended, but offered Harry a smile regardless. “We only need to rewind a little.”

And then Tom brought out one last flower that Harry recognised, and finally, Harry began to struggle. He reached for his wand, but Tom easily knocked it out of his grasp, and it went scattering over the floor.

“No, no, I’m not forgetting-“

Tom shushed him soothingly, and held on despite Harry’s kicking. Either Tom was stronger than Harry remembered, or he’d already been drugged with something. Harry’s limbs did feel a little heavier.

“No,” he protested, and Tom placed a finger to his lips.

“You won’t forget the good bits, I promise,” he assured him, and then he removed Harry’s glasses with a careful hand, brought a powdered blue petal close to Harry’s eyes, and _blew_.

It was like being hit with a drowsing potion, and Harry could feel himself shutting down even as the dust settled on his cheeks.

“Why?” Harry muttered, one final effort before he closed his eyes and sank into sweet oblivion.

“Because I get everything I want,” Tom said lovingly, pressing a warm kiss to his lips. “And that’s not changing any time soon.”

* * *

 

When Harry awoke, the world seemed off- _brighter_ somehow. He groaned, and rubbed his forehead. That was quite some headache.

“Are you okay?” Tom’s hand stroked through Harry’s hair, and Harry batted it away groggily.

“D’n touch m’,” he mumbled, and Tom froze. “Everything _hurts_ ,” Harry complained, and Tom appeared to relax.

“I was levitating a plant pot, and you walked into it,” Tom explained hesitantly, and Harry rolled his eyes because- yeah, that sounded like him. Only, ouch, no, he shouldn’t roll his eyes, because that really, _really_ hurt.

“I need tea,” he murmured, and tried to get up. He flailed slightly, like a tortoise trying to right itself, and then gave up.

“I’ll get it.”

Harry peeled an eyelid open and watched Tom conduct the making of a tea solely with his wand, sending the teabag dancing over the counter towards the boiling water in an odd sort of Irish jig. Tom always made magic look effortless- even the journey of the cup floating through the air looked like ballet.

As Harry fastened his hands around the mug and took a deep sip, his head cleared a little. The space behind his eyes still pulsed, though. “I think I have a concussion.”

“Perhaps I should ask some questions. See how your brain function is,” Tom suggested, and Harry agreed.

“Can’t hurt,” he muttered. Unlike his head.

“What’s your name?”

“Roonil Wazlib.” A brief pause, and then Harry rolled his eyes, smiling slightly. “I’m joking- Harry James Potter.”

“And your birthday?”

“31st July.”

“And perhaps something more specific: do you remember that rogue owl that you received some months ago? When the Ministry system got a virus?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry said blankly. “Are you sure _you’re_ not the one who smacked his head on a plant pot?”

“Maybe that was _too_ specific. What do you think of Lucius Malfoy?” Tom asked, and the question seemed weirdly searching.

“Malfoy’s a twat,” Harry responded immediately, and Tom laughed with something like relief.

“Well, I suppose we shall have to agree to disagree.”

“Yeah,” Harry said fondly, wrapping an arm around Tom’s waist. “Agree to disagree.”

“Well, I believe you’re injury-free- which means you can sleep. It _has_ gotten rather late.” Tom glanced out of the window at the night beyond, which glittered brighter than Harry could remember. He felt lighter, happier- he hadn’t felt this careless in _years_.

“Yeah, it has,” Harry murmured, resting his head on Tom’s strong shoulder. “Let’s go to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it! I might write a sequel if anyone wants it (after WMLALAYT is finished), I have so many /ideas/ for this universe. Tom can't hide his extracurriculars for forever, no matter what he thinks...
> 
> FEATURING  
> Harry Potter, an Auror rising in the ranks, far too curious and passionate for his own good  
> Tom Riddle, owner of Aconitum and definitely lying about one thing or twenty  
> Ginny Potter, Quidditch Reporter and probably the one most changed by this new world  
> Lily and James Potter, loving parents recovering from a separation. James runs a joke shop with the Marauders. It’s mentioned in one line but it’s /important/  
> Mrs Weasley, Professional Busybody, but well-meaning  
> Zacharias Smith, lower level auror and plant enthusiast. What a tool  
> Mr Borgin, generally grumpy  
> Hermione Longbottom(-Weasley), manager in the hermione of International Magical Cooperation  
> Ron Weasley(-Longbottom), runs a Quidditch shop  
> Neville Longbottom, wealthy heir and indulgent brother  
> Mendacium, an owl  
> That Guy Who Burned To Death, tried to help Harry
> 
>  
> 
> THE FLOWERS
> 
> THE FIRST BOUQUET FOR GINNY:  
> Peeping Poppies: poppies with little expressive faces. Relay information back to florist.  
> ‘Apology Flowers’: bell-like flowers in a light, baby blue. “Have charms and associations that encourage a calm mentality and honesty between a couple”- truth flowers. They’re truth flowers, Tom, you bastard.
> 
> MORE BOUQUETS FOR GINNY:  
> ‘Orange Flowers’: thorns, pollen, and the exact shade of Ginny’s hair- wonder why. Need to be keyed to a specific person’s magical signature- perhaps with hair? Latches onto a person and slowly breaks down their immune system. A slow and painful process.  
> Zacharias Smith, you liar.
> 
> FINAL BOUQUET FOR GINNY:  
> ‘Pink Flowers’: “luxurious and rich” pink. Cause swift and painful death. Basically speed up what the orange flowers do.
> 
> MISC:  
> Sunshine Roses: yellow roses. They just make people warm and happy. Tom, take note.  
> Evanescet Cogitationes aka ‘Memory Loss Flowers’: a pretty flower in the same shade of silvery-blue as a patronus. Crushed to administer to person. Aids in memory loss, specific memories can be taken and manipulated by the user. More undetectable and irreversible than ‘obliviate’ and less painful than legillimency. ‘Cause Tom cares (kind of).


End file.
